


Dirty Laundry

by RowboatCop



Series: Cliche Interruptus (or 5 Times the Avengers Interrupt Skye and Coulson During a Sex Cliche, and One Time They Don't) [1]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Banter, F/M, Flirting, Laundry day, Silly, This is Clark Gregg's fault, very silly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2014-07-31
Packaged: 2018-02-11 03:11:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2051388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowboatCop/pseuds/RowboatCop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an interview, Clark Gregg made a joke about Coulson running into Steve Rogers in a laundromat, and that being how he finds out that Coulson isn't dead. My own pervy brain added a half-naked Skye to that mix, and downgraded Captain America to more of a party-crasher...  Just silliness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dirty Laundry

**Author's Note:**

> Part I: Sex in the laundromat (that's a cliche, right?)/love interest in your clothes.

“I just don’t see why we need to do this _right now_ ,” Coulson complains, nonetheless following her through the glass door and into the laundromat. There are a three other people inside, only one of whom looks up at their entrance.

“Because I like this dress,” Skye answers, looking down at the large brown coffee stain on the bright pink fabric. It’s very noticeable, and he doesn’t blame her for being upset, was actually rather impressed with how well she clamped down on her annoyance with the small child who barreled into her as they left Starbucks, spilling all of her post-NSA briefing coffee down her front. 

“We have better facilities back at the base,” he promises, taking in the sight of the rundown machines. He would bet money that they are a good deal older than Skye is.

“But _those_ are over an hour away. And _these_ are here.”

“Is that dress even machine washable?” He scans his eyes down her body, trying not to look like he’s enjoying it too much.

He _is_ , though. Enjoying it too much.

“You know it,” she answers as she heads over to a vending machine and purchases detergent and some sort of stain remover that promises to be magic. “I’m a simple girl, AC. Plus, I’ve never had enough money for dry cleaners.”

“You do now, though."

"This is what I like," she answers, shrugging.

"You’re Assistant Director of SHIELD.” He whispers the last word.

“Are you making an official complaint about my wardrobe, Director Coulson?” She turns from the vending machine and stares him down, looks like she might be on the verge of angry. He takes a step back, reexamines his words.

“Of course not. You can wear whatever you want, that’s not what matters here. It’s about whether it’s what you want.”

“It is,” she answers, flashing him a smile as she thunks down her cleanser purchases on a free machine, far enough away from anyone else in the room that it feels almost private. He's not entirely sure he believes her, but he's also entirely sure that he isn't going to push it. 

“You’ve always had a minimalist style, haven’t you?”

“Minimalism is for rich people,” she answers with a laugh. “Now give me your shirt.”

“What?”

“Your shirt. Give it to me.” She looks at him like he’s incredibly stupid, which he probably is because it takes too long for his brain to catch up with what’s going on. He’s slow today, apparently. Must be because he lost his coffee, too, in the kerfuffle outside the Starbucks.

He swallows reflexively, but nods, sparing a fleeting thought to the idea that the Director of SHIELD is being shaken down for his shirt in a crappy laundromat in Silver Spring, Maryland. Coulson would bet a lot of money that this never happened to Nick Fury. 

Skye takes his suit jacket from him and folds it neatly in half, laying it across a washing machine, and then she lounges back and openly watches him loosen his tie. Slowly, he removes the knot and pulls on the thicker end, letting it slide out of his collar in a way that feels almost sensual. Handing it to her feels lewd, like the opening act of a strip tease. Skye definitely makes it worse when she takes it happily, running the fabric through her hands and licking her lips as her eyes trail down his chest.

She is _not_ trying to make it look like she’s not enjoying it.

The fact that she does seem to be enjoying it causes a troubling reaction — blood rushes to his cheeks and to…other parts. Skye’s growing smirk is distinctly not helpful.

Coulson untucks his shirt, being careful to leave his undershirt tucked beneath it, and begins to unbutton it, starting from the bottom. He's very aware of Skye's eyes on his body the whole time, but what kills him is the sight of her fingers playing against her hip, as though she would like to be doing the unbuttoning. When he finally slides the shirt off of his shoulders, leaving him in front of her in just his undershirt, he feels her eyes scan down his arms appreciatively before reaching out and taking his shirt.

“Thank you, sir,” she says, and he isn’t sure whether she’s thanking him for the shirt or for the show.

She disappears into the back of the laundromat, towards the unisex restroom sign, and he collapses into one of the chairs directly across from the machine Skye has claimed.

It has felt dangerous, lately — like Skye is daring him to make a move, or maybe begging him — and it feels extra dangerous this evening.

Coulson glances up when he senses motion in his peripheral vision, at which point he realizes — because he is _really_ slow on the uptake today — that Skye is wearing his shirt and a pair of sandals. And nothing else.

Well, nothing else he can _see_.

His shirt hits her at almost mid-thigh, and she has all the buttons done save the one at the collar. The sleeves are casually rolled up her arms, and she looks like the picture of comfort. Although, he thinks as his eyes reflexively scan her body from head to toe and back again, his shirt technically covers more of her body than her dress did, so why shouldn’t she be comfortable?

What confuses him is why the fact that she is actually  _more_ covered than she was when she left does not stop her from seeming even more naked under his gaze. He knows part of it is that its  _his_ shirt and part of it is that the part of her body more exposed is her legs.

It turns out that he really, really likes her legs. 

He does very little other than watch her as she treats the stain on her dress and puts it in for a wash cycle, starting with a pre-soak. (They are going to be here for a while, he realizes.) He is still doing very little other than watching as she hops up onto the machine, tucking the shirt beneath her and dangling her long, bare legs off the side. He’s at eye level with her thighs, at _face_ level with her _bare_ thighs, and the thought makes him immediately stand up.

“You okay, AC?”

She looks almost guilty, like she knows that she’s teasing him mercilessly just by existing, and he feels bad. It’s not her fault that he wants her more than air most days.

“Fine,” he answers, smiling.

“Want to sit down?” She pats the machine next to her — the one that his tie and jacket aren’t draped across — and he shakes his head. “Suit yourself.” She shrugs and reaches over to the other machine, picking up his tie. He paces a little bit, trying to put some distance between them.

As though she knows his eyes are still on her, although she must know his eyes are on her most of the time, she lays the blue fabric across her lap and buttons up the shirt collar. Her hands smooth down the shirt, framing out the curves of her body that are hidden by the bagginess, and she picks up the tie. Carefully, she threads it through the collar before crossing the two ends, making a loop, and then grunting in frustration.

“I don’t know how to tie a tie,” she admits, as though it’s some sort of failing. He smiles at that.

“Why would you?”

“Lots of women do, right? I mean lots of women tie their husbands’ ties, don’t they?” He wonders why he would be any sort of authority in what women do for their husbands.

“I suppose so,” he answers, shrugging.

“Has anyone ever tied your tie for you?”

“No,” he answers, honestly.

“Have you ever tied anyone else’s tie?”

“No.” He pauses, looks down at the silky blue fabric tangled around her neck. “Why do you care so much about ties?”

“I’m curious whether I’m deficient in a key life skill, Coulson,” she answers, grinning at him playfully. “I’ve missed out on learning something that I could have done for someone.”

“Have you ever had a boyfriend that actually wore a tie?”

“Point...taken.” Skye smiles, self-deprecating, and he feels bad. “Come here,” she orders him.

“What?”

“Come here and show me how to tie this tie. Please.”

He walks towards her, stopping when his upper thighs make contact with her bare knees. Slowly, she parts her thighs, giving him room to step between them and push closer to her body. Coulson inches forward much too slowly, eyes locked on the sight of his grey pants dragging along the bare skin of her inner thighs. He stops himself before he presses the evidence of his arousal against her.

It takes him several seconds before he can raise his eyes, which he locks very carefully at her neck — away from her thighs, but also away from her knowing gaze. Slowly, he brings his hands up to the tie, accidentally brushing over her breasts as he lifts the two ends.

Her breasts are soft under his hands, and it takes incredible willpower to pretend he didn't touch them, to ignore the way her nipples visibly pebble and the way she gasps. Skye's hips tilt forward on the washing machine, as though seeking out greater contact, and the warm skin of her inner thigh presses against his erection. The only thing that makes it bearable is that she doesn’t seem to notice.

Slowly, he adjusts the lengths of the wide and narrow ends of the tie and starts to make a half-Windsor.

"Cross the wide end over the narrow end," he starts to narrate, his voice low and quiet, and he hears her breath catch.

By the first time he pulls the wide end through a loop at her neck, her legs tighten around him, and he has a hard time making his voice work right.   

He’s actually grateful that he has to think about it, since he's never done this on someone else before, and he has to mirror everything. Every step requires him to pull his thoughts away from Skye for at least a moment, and it makes it slightly easier to not get completely lost in his own arousal, or in the tantalizing prospect of just  _exactly_ what it means that Skye's breaths are coming quick and shallow. Or Skye's breasts, moving just under his hands with each shallow breath, or Skye's legs, pressed around his own like a lover's.

The fact that he gets the knot in one try is nothing short of heroic.

When he finishes, he tightens the knot at her throat and finally meets her eyes. The heat he sees there sweeps over him in a full body flush.

“Coulson.” She whispers his name, but it’s also a question that they’ve both avoided asking for a very long time.

“Skye,” he answers, his voice soft and longing.

That was always going to be his answer, and he realizes then that he was just waiting for her to ask the question. 

He’s still holding the tie, and he uses it to pull her forward as he feels her hands land on his waist, gripping his belt to haul him somehow closer to her. Their torsos touch as he leans over her, and Skye’s hands race from his belt to his neck, pulling him against her eagerly. Her mouth opens under his, and he’s just feeling the softness of her lower lip against his when a loud yell startles them apart.

“What the _hell_ is going on here?”

There aren’t many things Coulson can think of that would effectively turn his thoughts away from kissing Skye, but the sight of an angry Steve Rogers glaring at him is definitely one of them. It is also a sight that scares the two remaining patrons of the laundromat out the front door, leaving behind baskets of clothes as they run.

“Captain Rogers.” Coulson nods in greeting as he steps back from Skye, watching as she tugs his shirt down her thighs and turns to look at Captain America in jeans and a black t-shirt carrying a canvas sack full of dirty laundry.

“Who are you? Or should I ask _what_ are you?”

Coulson swallows and nods, having prepared himself for the fact that his reappearance would not necessarily be greeted with immediate joy and belief. And, given the fall of SHIELD and the reveal of HYDRA, rightfully so. 

“Phil Coulson, sir,” he answers.

“You want to try that again?” Steve crosses his arms, looking large and menacing. 

Coulson glances over at Skye, who looks wary — like she’s worried she’s going to have to defend him from an angry superhero. It's sort of flattering, really, that Captain America would be so upset at the idea of someone stealing his image.

“Phil Coulson died. I saw his body. You _cannot_ be Phil Coulson.”

Coulson meets Skye’s eyes and touches the scar over his heart, wondering if it’s the best way to prove his identity, but she frowns.

“He is,” Skye cuts in. “Same guy, brought back to life.”

“You’ll have to pardon my incredulity, ma’am, but I’m not usually in the habit of taking the words of strange women who hang around public locations while half-dressed.”

Coulson winces at how much that was the wrong thing to say, and just stands back as Skye slides off the washing machine and smooths his shirt down her legs. Her jaw is tight with anger — a look she's really perfected since she's started working more with May — and she pokes a finger up into Steve Rogers's chest.

“Well _this_ half-dressed woman hanging around a public place is the Assistant Director of SHIELD, and I'll thank you to not assume the worst of me when we're clearly here because my dress got dirty." Coulson is unbearably amused by the whole display, and watches Steve look suitably embarrassed that he might have embarrassed a woman. Skye's glare fades, then, and she speaks very honestly. "And that's Phil Coulson, Director of SHIELD. You just need to hear us out."

“SHIELD?” He looks equal parts excited and wary.

“Yeah, but this time with fewer secrets and no Nazis,” Skye adds, shrugging nonchalantly. Steve smiles at that, and looks over at Coulson.

“We have a lot to talk about,” Coulson tells him. “Admittedly, I was hoping to do it in...more formal circumstances. While wearing a shirt.”

Skye just grins at him and returns to her seat on the washing machine, playing with his tie around her neck.

“You should start your laundry,” she suggests. “We have at least half an hour before my dress goes in the dryer.”

"Yes, ma'am," Steve answers, throwing Skye a playful salute as he takes her orders. "Sorry for casting aspersions on your person. I was just shocked."

"I understand. I can see how it would have been shocking." 

Her eyes meet Coulson's as Rogers starts loading his laundry into a machine, and they promise that this isn't over. 


End file.
